


A Dangerous Love

by redbuttonhole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Domestic Violence, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Eventual Johnlockary, F/M, Infidelity, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marylock - Freeform, Missing Scene, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-OT3, Pregnancy, but hopefully they will work it out, everyone behaving really badly, or really a bunch of missing scenes, s/m/j
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbuttonhole/pseuds/redbuttonhole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In His Last Vow, seven months between the Watson Family Domestic and Christmas at the Holmes' pass unseen.  Here's one version of what might have happened during that gap.</p>
<p>John and Sherlock and Mary all love each other.  And it's tearing them apart.</p>
<p>This will be eight chapters (probably), about 10k.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Ariane Devere for her transcripts. (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/)

> SHERLOCK: John – Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life.  
>  JOHN _(quietly)_ : She shot you.  
>  _(Sherlock pulls a face, half-nodding his agreement.)_  
>  SHERLOCK: Er, mixed messages, I grant you.  
>  _(He grimaces, crying out in pain, and starts to fall. John and the paramedics start to lower him to the floor.)_  
>  JOHN: Sherlock? Sherlock. _(To the paramedics)_ All right, take him.  
>  _(Sherlock cries out again. John releases him, watching the paramedics.)_  
>  JOHN: Got him?  
>  _(They lay Sherlock down as he groans and whimpers. John straightens and looks down in concern as one of the paramedics gets out an oxygen mask. While they continue working, John looks across to Mary, breathing heavily and with his teeth slightly bared.)_

Sherlock fades in and out of consciousness as the paramedics do their work. He doesn't like leaving John and Mary like this—he had rather planned on having their whole domestic patched up by the end of the day. Unfortunately his body gave out on him, and now he is in no shape to broker a peace. He can only hope he has laid the groundwork for the necessary reconciliation, and they can resolve the remainder of their differences without his help.

The morphine goes a long way to taking his mind off the problem.

******

When he wakes up, John is with him.

"Mary?" Once again, Sherlock's first word upon attaining consciousness. He doesn't have the energy to explain himself more fully.

"She was here earlier. Went home to get some rest."

"Go," Sherlock wheezes through the tubes. "Go to her."

John shakes his head, looks faintly guilty.

"I hope it's all right," he says. "I've been staying back at Baker Street the past few days."

"John—"

"Shh, save your strength. I know. I remember what you said. I just—it's going to take some time, Sherlock. I can't just forgive and move on, not right away."

Sherlock sighs, but he is already drifting back to sleep, and has no choice but to accept this unforeseen delay.


	2. July

At last, the doctors have finished their tedious fussing and released Sherlock. Even then, it was only on condition that he have round the clock medical supervision. Mycroft of course could have provided any number of highly skilled nursing professionals, but John—loyal and devoted as ever—has of course insisted on taking the matter in his own hands.

It does not escape Sherlock's notice that this provides John with an excuse to delay his reunion with Mary a little longer. But as John said in the hospital, apparently these things take time. And it is nice to be back at Baker Street together, just like the old days.

He takes advantage of his mixed motives and convalescence by torturing John with rounds of Cluedo.

********

"John."

"Mmm?"

John is lingering over the breakfast table, reading the paper. Sherlock is watching him from the sofa. John doesn't look up at his name, but his shoulders have tensed slightly.

"I'm feeling much better today."

John folds and lays down the paper. He knows what's coming.

"Are you sure, though?" he says at length. "An injury like that, you really don't want to rush your—"

"I'm fine, John. It doesn't even hurt anymore."

John allows his face to relax into a smile.

"Well, that's great. Ready to get back to work, then? Your inbox is bursting with clients, and Lestrade called the other day with—"

"John. We _have_ a client."

John nods slightly to himself, blows out a lungful of air.

"It's time," says Sherlock. "You can't hide here forever."

"So you're kicking me out, is that it?" John tone is light on the surface, tense and dark underneath. "No more need for a nurse maid, so you're through with me."

Sherlock closes his eyes. He really is feeling much better, but even on his strongest days, he's never had much patience for this kind of transparent emotional manipulation. Having John here in the flat again—close to him, caring for him, keeping him busy and entertained—Sherlock had given up hope of ever experiencing such pleasures again. The past few weeks have reminded Sherlock of a happiness he thought was gone from his life forever.

John knows better than to suggest otherwise, or he should. But none of that can erase the fact of John's marriage—he swore to stand by Mary for the rest of their lives, no matter what. And surely he remembers Sherlock's vow as well.

Sherlock knows that his vow that day took many people by surprise. To most of the assembled friends and relations, it was plainly obvious that if anything was going to break up the Watson marriage, it would be Sherlock Holmes. But that is all the more reason why he is honor-bound to keep John and Mary together. No matter how mulish John insists on being over Mary's previous career.

Sherlock opens his eyes. John sighs and turns back to the paper, the tension now having worked its way from his shoulders to his jaw.

"I know," says John in response to nothing Sherlock has said. "But not yet. I just need some more time."

********

John is at the clinic when Mary calls. Sherlock is at his laptop, searching various databases for anything that will help him defang Magnussen, but he answers on the second ring.

"Mary," he says. "Are you all right?"

In answer, Mary bursts into tears. Not dropping the phone, Sherlock gets to his feet in one fluid movement and has an arm into his coat before Mary stops him with a hiccup-sob-laugh.

"I'm fine," she says. "I'm just—relieved."

"Relieved?" He shrugs his way out of the coat and hangs it up again.

"That you answered. That you—that you're speaking to me. You are speaking to me, right?" Mary's voice trembles uncharacteristically. Sherlock is surprised by the dull ache forming in his chest, apparently in response.

"Of course," he says, his voice slightly rougher than usual.

"And John?"

Sherlock has no good news to report on that front, so he says nothing at all. Things aren't worse, but they aren't better either, and he doesn't want to give her false hope.

"I know," she says. "These things take time."

"Do you need anything?"

"Not really, I'm taking care of myself. Physically. It's just... I have a doctor's appointment coming up, and I hate going alone. Do you think he might—? For the baby, if not for me."

"I'll talk to him."

*******

John's not ready. Sherlock decides to take Mary to her appointment. It seems within the scope of his duties, in their marriage.

He expects Mary to look fragile and red-eyed, but she greets him with a bright, confident smile. Keeping up appearances in public, most likely, though it occurs to him to wonder if she is genuinely happy to see him. She certainly seems to be, even if he knows he is a second choice. Nonetheless, she embraces him fondly outside the doctor's office.

It's a bit awkward at first. John has never been to an appointment with Mary, so naturally the staff assume Sherlock is the father. Sherlock feels his cheeks heat absurdly at the suggestion, but Mary smoothly explains that he's a friend of the family, and no one seems to think this particularly odd or unusual.

The appointment is much faster than he expected, and fairly dull. Afterwards, Mary invites Sherlock back to the house for a cup of tea. He hesitates, eager to get back to the experiment he started that morning, but he thinks of her alone in that flat while he has John all to himself, and accepts.

It isn't a bit awkward. Mary is as uninterested in small talk as Sherlock is, and after a few minutes she gives a wicked grin, opens a secret compartment in the pantry, and shows off her considerable weapons collection. Sherlock only realizes how long he's been there when sunset finally slants through the blinds.

When he gets home, John has dinner ready. He gruffly asks how the appointment went, not making eye-contact. Still, Sherlock counts this as a good sign.


	3. August

Sherlock takes on a few cases. John is by his side the whole way, and it feels like old times again. Except that there is a faraway look in John's eyes and a pit in Sherlock's stomach that both tell him this isn't quite right. 

One evening finds them rehashing a particularly thrilling case resolution in the back of a Chinese restaurant.

"I can't believe you got all that from a bicycle. You're amazing, you know."

"So I've heard," says Sherlock, his cheeks warm. Their eyes meet over a plate of egg rolls and Sherlock's smile falters.

"What?" says John.

Sherlock hesitates, wanting to take advantage of John's rare good mood to push him toward Mary again, but also not wanting to ruin the moment. John drops his eyes back to his plate.

"Oh," he says. 

"John, you made a vow. Surely that means something to you."

"I made a vow, yes. I made a vow to Mary Morstan. But that's not who I married, is it? She married me under false pretenses, Sherlock—I don't owe her anything. I should have the whole thing annulled."

"You won't," says Sherlock fiercely.

John sighs. "No, I won't. Because the only way to get the annulment would be to reveal publicly what she did. Which would put her and the baby in danger. I'd never do that, but—" He rubs a hand over his face. "How can I treat her like my wife? I don't even know her." 

"So get to know her. Take her out to dinner. Start over."

A pair of fortune cookies are dropped on the table.

"I'll think about it," says John.

*********

Mary has another doctor's appointment. Sherlock convinces John to go, but at the last minute finds him in the kitchen on what appears to be his third glass of whiskey. Sherlock shoots him a dark look and leaves him behind.

At the doctor's office, he registers a moment's grief on Mary's face when she sees he has come alone, but her smile is back a moment later, and she makes no mention of it. At the appointment, they hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time, and Mary squeezes Sherlock's hand so hard it hurts. He squeezes back. 

Afterwards, they go out to a shooting range, where Mary shows him some new techniques. They get dinner and Mary asks about John while toying idly with her tiramisu. 

"He'll come around."

"I know. I know, just—what if he doesn't? I'm trying to make plans for our future, and it's exhausting, because I'm always making two plans. One if he comes back, and –"

"He's coming back. He will."

Mary shakes her head. "I don't deserve him. I know that, I know I made a terrible mistake. I wanted to protect him from my past, and I thought—any sane person would leave me if they knew what I am, what I've done. The danger they'd be in just from being near me."

Sherlock smiles wryly. "John's not really that sane."

"Still. If we're going to do this, if we're going to be a family—I've got to neutralize Magnussen. For all our sakes."

"I'm working on it."

"Sherlock, don't." Mary reaches out a hand and covers his on the table-cloth. She means to be reassuring, but to an outsider it would look like an intimacy between lovers. "This isn't your fight. I know you said I'm your client now, but it's my mess. I should clean it up."

He turns his hand over and clasps hers.

"Mary Watson," he says, "I made you my business on your wedding day."

Mary smiles wanly. 

"Why, though? No one would blame you if you took John's side. Your own side. For God's sake, I nearly killed you. Why are you so invested in helping us—in helping me?"

Sherlock withdraws his hand and fiddles with his wine glass, wishing for a cigarette. 

"When I came back," he begins carefully, "after two years away—two years dead. John never wanted to speak to me again. And you said—"

"I'd talk him 'round." Mary smiles at the memory.

"You didn't even know me. You had no reason to view me as anything but a threat—to your happiness, your safety. But you thought nothing of interceding on my behalf."

"I knew what you meant to him. You boys need each other—I'd have been a fool to get in the way of that."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I know what it's like to have betrayed John Watson, and to feel that he'll never forgive you. I owe you more than I can ever repay."

Mary doesn't reply, but when Sherlock looks up, her eyes are wet, her smile wobbly.


	4. September

"Where are you off to, then? Case?"

Sherlock pauses in wrapping his scarf around his neck and looks at John, sitting on the sofa. 

"Not a case, no. But I would very much like it if you came with me."

"Why, where are you—?" Awareness dawns on John's face. "Oh." He stretches his left hand in front him, clenches and unclenches it, watching the response as if this is a key to his life decisions. He rests his fist on his knee. Sherlock sighs and turns toward the door.

"All right," says John.

"What?"

"Hang on a tic, just need to find my shoes."

Sherlock releases a breath he feels like he's been holding for three months. 

*******

It's Mary's first ultrasound. The baby is healthy, perfect. John has been stiff and anxious ever since they left the house, barely acknowledging Mary when they got to the office. But when Sherlock glances at him now, his face has gone slack with wonder. Mary reaches for his hand and he allows their fingers to interlace, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. 

When Mary suggests tea afterwards, John frowns and says they need to get back, even though they don't. Sherlock shoots Mary a glance, but she covers her disappointment quickly. "Another time, then," she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow build! I swear things the next chapter is longer and has actual PLOT. Maybe even kissing. ;)


	5. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm splitting this month in two, because it is long and eventful.

John and Mary are dating. 

They go out to dinner, or to a show, or a gallery opening. The goal is to get reacquainted, to do it properly this time, all cards on the table. The first couple of times, John comes home quite early, his expression tight, and he takes down the bottle of whiskey before he's even kicked his shoes off. But since then, he has come home a bit later each time, the last time even smiling a bit. When Sherlock looks up, John tells him Mary says hi. 

One night a week, John sees Mary. Four nights a week, John and Sherlock work on cases, or tolerate bad telly in the lulls between. Two nights a week, Sherlock goes over to Mary's. He tells himself he feels bad for her, pregnant and alone so much. Or that he is trying to guide John by his example. And of course, they have work to do on the Magnussen case.

But the truth is, he looks forward to their evenings together. Sherlock and Mary have a lot in common, and he enjoys comparing notes with her on weaponry, spycraft, and assassination techniques. 

Or even just watching old spy movies with a tub of ice cream, critiquing the gross inaccuracies together. 

They are curled up one evening under a wool blanket, Mary slowly nodding off on Sherlock's shoulder as Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy draws to a close, when Sherlock feels a slight thumping against his ribs. He glances down at Mary to see if she has shifted, but she appears completely motionless. But there it is again—a little thump, almost as if he were being tapped, or... kicked. By a very small foot.

"Oof," says Mary, waking a little. "What was that?" She sits up and wraps her hands around her belly. She looks up at Sherlock, her eyes wide. "Oh!" she exclaims. "The baby. It's kicking!"

"Have you ever—?"

Mary shakes her head. "This is the first time—at least, first time I'm sure it's not something I ate. Ooh, it feels weird. Here."

She reaches out for Sherlock's hand and places it over a particular spot on her abdomen. There it is again—that strange thumping. It's a bit disconcerting, and Sherlock's first impulse is to pull his hand away. He resists this, and after a couple more kicks, discovers that he is grinning. 

"How incredibly odd," he says.

"It really is."

They giggle at each other for a bit until Mary's expression clouds over. 

"John should be here," she says. "He's missing so much."

"I know. But there will be other firsts. First word, first steps. He will be there for them, Mary. I promise."

Mary nods, but looks unconvinced.

"Things are... they're getting better, aren't they?"

Mary forces a smile. "Yes, thanks to you. We've had some actual fun, the last few times we've been out. It's not like old times, but then, I suppose it can't be... I just wish we could move faster through all this. I can't blame him for taking it slow, for not being sure. I know it's my fault, but I hate that he's not here. Not even for me—for the baby. For _him_. He would love this part, and I hate that he's missing it because of my mistakes."

Sherlock doesn't know what he can say to that, so instead he pulls her closer to him again. He kisses her hair, and she relaxes a bit, so he kisses her forehead, and she squeezes him back. He lifts one of her hands and presses it to his lips. She raises her head and looks at him. 

"Sherlock," she says. 

He drops a light kiss on her mouth, and her breath catches. It's interesting, testing the effects he can produce by varying his input. He leans in for another, a bit firmer this time. Mary kisses back for the briefest of moments, then slithers out of his arms and across the couch.

Her breath comes quickly, but she is turned away from him, won't meet his eye. He puzzles over her behavior, reconsidering the steps that got him here. Mary takes a deep, steadying breath.

"You can't do that, Sherlock. It's—" her hands twist in her lap. "It's dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

She gets up from the couch, moves to a chair a few feet away. Rests her hands on her knees, looks him in the face like he's a child who needs a serious matter explained to him. 

"Sherlock, you've been so incredibly good to me—to us—through all of this. But I think... " She hesitates, then nods slightly to herself. "Yeah. I think you need to stop coming over."

"Mary, don't be ridiculous. If I offended you—"

"It's not that." Mary's hands twist again. "And it's not your fault. You haven't done... It's me, really. I know it doesn't mean anything to you—I mean it does, I know that it does, but not the same, and it's just that—" 

Sherlock has given up even trying to sort out all the clauses and half-statements. Mary laughs a little. 

"I'm not helping, am I? Look, Sherlock—I don't know if it's all the hormones I am dealing with right now, and just fondness and affection and overwhelming gratitude getting mixed up with... other things, but I—I don't feel safe around you right now."

"Safe? But Mary, you can't possibly believe you have anything to fear from me."

Mary's face does something weird and inexplicable, and then she is crying. 

"Sherlock," she says, mopping her nose inelegantly on her sleeve, "I'm worried I'm falling in love with you." 

Sherlock blinks. Of course Mary loves him, as he loves her. He's known it for ages. Why else would he stand up for the two of them at their wedding? Why else would he spend so much time with her, attend those appointments? He's said it dozens of times, certainly—"Give my love to Mary," in text messages while they were on their honeymoon. But the way Mary has said it now—there's something different, something new he's meant to understand. Not love— _in_ love. The terms have different connotations, don't they? This is a dangerous love, she said. Why dangerous? Because it puts her at risk? No, she's already at risk, and anyway she wouldn't mind that. Is it because—? Oh. 

Because this, apparently, is the sort of love you're only supposed to have for one person. 

Sherlock realizes he hasn't spoken or moved in several minutes. Mary remains before him, looking anguished. He clears his throat. 

"Does this mean you don't love John anymore?"

Mary appears surprised at this question, though it seems to Sherlock a perfectly reasonable one. 

"No," she says. "No, I love John very much. And... and he's my husband. For now, at least. I think. But that's exactly why I need to stop this before it goes any further."

Sherlock nods. It makes a kind of sense, he supposes. Prolonged exposure in the absence of John will lead to increased intimacy between the two of them, which may in turn lead to acts generally accepted to be forbidden by a marriage vow.

"All right," he says, and he notices that this answer does not appear to improve Mary's mood. Somewhat dazed, he stands to leave, reaches for his coat and feels Mary's hand on his arm. He looks down at her. 

"Sherlock," she says, her eyes still shining, "I'm sorry about this. You've done so much, and I don't mean to be ungrateful..."

He lifts a hand to her hair, her cheek, memorizing her features, not sure when he'll see her again. He shouldn't linger too long, though—it will be easier if he moves quickly, leaves this place and returns to John. Except he doesn't want to.

Why not? Normally the thought of John waiting for him at 221b fills him with a pleasurable warmth. But now something cold clutches at him when he thinks of climbing those stairs—something far closer to dread. But why should he dread seeing John? What has changed in the past few minutes that would affect his feelings toward John?

Oh. 

All at once, the unfairness of the situation assaults him. Mary is driving Sherlock away out of concern for John's feelings, but where is John? He's supposed to be here—it's his duty, his right, and should be his joy. Mary shouldn't be alone through this. Of course there are women who go through pregnancy and child-raising alone, either by choice or by necessity. But Mary isn't choosing a solitary life. 

John refused his obligations, and Sherlock stepped into his place. Is it surprising, then, that Mary's affections have shifted? Far from it—it's perfectly natural. 

And what of Sherlock's affections? He never sought this. He made that choice years ago: forgo the conventional pleasures of a partner, a family, or anything that might distract him from his work. But that doesn't mean it was an easy choice. That doesn't mean there isn't still a part of him that wonders if he could have enjoyed that life, wonders if he could still have it, if it isn't too late for him. 

And if someone else has that life but walks away from it... Who's to say Sherlock can't dust off the pieces and make it is own? John right now is dithering. John doesn't know what he wants. But Mary does. And Sherlock... It occurs to Sherlock that he knows as well. 

He drops his coat and brings his other hand up to frame Mary's face. She no longer looks so apologetic or anguished. More... curious. As if she's wondering what he'll do next. As if she's wondering whether she'll stop him. 

He kisses her again. She doesn't stop him. 

Sherlock's hands slide down to her hips, and Mary's hands slide up into his hair. They push and pull into each other until she is pressed up against the door jam by the length of Sherlock's body. 

He feels a feverish need to be as close to her as physically possible, if not closer. Is this love? Is this _in_ love? In truth, he's not sure the word "love" is very useful. It's much too vague, overdetermined. Sherlock loves his mother, and John, and London, and mince pies, and interesting murders. For one word to encompass all those very different pleasures is unreasonable. 

So what, more precisely, is pulsing through him as Mary slips open the buttons of his shirt and tugs him toward her bedroom? 

Affection. Attraction. Protectiveness. Desire. Fury. Fury? Unexpected, but undeniable. A wave of fiery anger is mixed in with those other sensations when he thinks of John, who could have this—who should be here, attending to his wife's needs, but instead has retreated to the safety and security of 221b and allowed others to pick up his slack. By his absence, he has abdicated his right to dictate the terms of their relationship, as much as if he _did_ have the marriage annulled.

Viewed this way, they have nothing to apologize for. John is a petulant child, sulking because life and love didn't turn out precisely the way he planned. But Mary—Mary is alive and warm in Sherlock's arms, as he is in hers. In this moment, they belong to no one but each other.

*******

Sherlock awakens feeling so thoroughly rotten that for a moment, he assumes it must be withdrawal. But he hasn't touched opiates in months, and besides, an inventory of his body reveals no furry tongue, no cold sweat, no chills or muscle aches. The wretchedness he feels is not in his body but in his soul. 

Sherlock disentangles himself from Mary's sleeping form and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. It's still dark out, but the rising hum of traffic in the distance indicates that dawn is not too far away. He feels around in the dark for his clothes until Mary switches a lamp on, blinding them both. 

Sherlock stands with his shirt half on and one sock in his hands, blinking as she swims into focus. He should say something, but he is unaccountably gripped by cowardice. He waits for her to speak, to set the terms for them as they move forward. 

"You should take a shower," is what she says.

"I can wait." He is itching to get out, to put as much space and time as possible between him and this act.

Mary huffs a humorless laugh. "You're new at this." She gestures at his body. "He might be awake when you get home. If you walk in looking like... smelling like... He'll know."

Ah. That answers some questions. 

Sherlock slides his shirt back off and enters her shower, trying not to think too much, but he has never been good at that. He opens Mary's conditioner, but the smell of it reminds him so powerfully of her that surely John will recognize it in an instant. He'll just have to live with frizzy hair.

It is still dark and surprisingly cold when Sherlock steps outside a few minutes later. As he reaches the main road, a taxi pulls up alongside him, but he waves it on. He can't go home yet. He needs to think. So he walks, and thinks, but none of his thoughts are remotely useful, and as a watery, greyish light slips over the rooftops, he pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a call.

"What's wrong?" says Mycroft's voice at the other end of the line.

Sherlock can't begin to formulate an answer to this.

"Ah," says Mycroft after a few moments. "We haven't played this game in quite a while. All right. From the ambient noise, you are outdoors, in the city, probably not very far from Baker Street. And the rate of your breath indicates anxiety but not panic. So I think I can rule out abduction or severe injury." 

Sherlock doesn't answer, but his breathing calms a little in response to his brother's familiar patter.

"You are upset, but not in immediate danger, which suggests that whatever situation you are in is one of your own making. Correct?"

Sherlock grimaces at the truth of this.

"A decade ago, the obvious answer would have been narcotics, but your breathing isn't consistent with an overdose. And yet your unwillingness to speak on the matter suggests you have done something not merely illegal or ill-advised, but shameful."

Sherlock sits down on a park bench, his knees curled up to his chin, his coat an impenetrable fortress.

"So what does that leave?" Mycroft pauses to consider. "You haven't taken many cases lately, so something personal, not professional. But given the current state of your emotional entanglements..."

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, then curses himself for the tell. 

"Ah," says Mycroft. "So much for 'not getting involved', I suppose. Which one, then? Balance of probability suggests John."

Sherlock is pretty sure he moderates any further possible tells, but somehow Mycroft roots him out anyway. It is moments like this that feed Sherlock's mild paranoia that his brother has at last developed true telepathy.

"No, not John," Mycroft says, a shade of wonder in his voice. " _Mary_. Oh, Sherlock. You really have done it this time, haven't you?"

"Is that supposed to be helpful?" Sherlock grits out through clenched teeth. He can't believe he has allowed his brother to goad him into speech, but that last remark was far too asinine to let pass. 

"What do you want me to say? There are some messes, little brother, even I can't fix."

But he doesn't hang up. Sherlock knows from long experience that if he can keep his mouth shut, Mycroft will eventually fill the vacuum. He stays on the phone, breathing steadily, until Mycroft sighs and gives in. 

"From the early hour of this call, I'm concluding that you haven't spoken to John about this yet."

Sherlock confirms this with silence. 

"And you want to know if you should. But Sherlock, you don't need me to tell you—of course you should. You must. It's the only honorable path, given your quite dishonorable actions." 

"And if I tell him..."

"You want reassurance from me that it will all work out? That he will forgive you. Forgive his wife. Happy endings all around. Are you really such a child, Sherlock? Still breaking your toys and then crying about it?"

"I hate you."

"Yes, that's what you said then, too. I make a convenient repository for emotions that would be more profitably self-directed."

"I don't care about myself. I can take my lumps," he insists, churlishly. "But for them. Will they -- ?"

"Doubtful. Their marriage was already rather fragile, wasn't it? And without you pushing them together, I can't imagine they'll find much reason to patch things up. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but actions have consequences. And not just for you."

Sherlock ends the call. For a few minutes, he remains still as stone, staring sightlessly as daybreak creeps across the park. Then abruptly he swirls into motion, striding purposefully toward Baker Street.


	6. Still October

It's still early when Sherlock climbs the stairs to 221b, hours before John usually gets up. He is somewhat alarmed, then, to find John sitting in his chair with a mug of coffee, the morning paper spread out on his lap. 

"Out all night, then?" says John, not looking up. "I thought you were in your room."

Sherlock has barely processed the words when he is hit by a wave of panic the likes of which he hasn't experienced since he was dead. The force of it knocks the air out of him, meanwhile his heart thuds so loudly it seems to fill the whole flat. 

"Did you get a case or something? While you were out with Mary?"

Sherlock removes his gloves, hangs his coat and scarf slowly, deliberately, buying himself time to calm his breathing and control the tremor in his extremities. 

"You could have texted me, you know. I'd have come." 

John sounds a bit tetchy. Sherlock realizes that he is jealous of the Met, of the imagined victim, or the murderer, of all things. He has to stop himself from grinning madly at the black humor of such misplaced sentiment. 

Instead, he wanders the sitting room aimlessly, unable to fix his attention on anything but his guilt. He feels it must be wafting off of him in visible waves. He picks up items on the table at random, then puts them down again. He knows he is behaving strangely, but then, he always behaves a bit strangely—he finds it quite a useful to have that expectation in place, for just these sorts of situations. 

"Is it raining out?" says John, his face hidden in the paper.

"Mmm?" says Sherlock, hardly able to grasp such a banal question in his state. "No. No, it's sunny."

"Yeah," says John, "that's what the weather report says." He folds the paper with care. "But I figure it must be a bit damp at least." Sherlock stares at him, struggling to draw meaning from the words. "Your hair," says John. "It gets like that when it's damp." He looks proud of himself. "I observed." 

Sherlock collapses into his chair, trembling slightly.

"John, please don't ever become a detective."

John grins. "Afraid I'll give you a run for your money, eh?" 

Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and breathes deeply. None of this is going according to plan, inasmuch as he had a plan, which is not really.

He doesn't know whether to feel relieved or furious that John can't deduce what has happened, in spite of the dozens of clues Sherlock has provided, both consciously and unconsciously. They have lived and worked together for years now (excepting, of course, the period of Sherlock's death), John should know something of his methods. Can he really be so blind, or is he being willfully stupid? Or perhaps he knows everything after all, has figured the whole thing out, and is laying a trap, biding his time to see how long before Sherlock cracks and incriminates himself. Ah, brilliant.

"Is there something wrong, Sherlock? You seem..."

"No," says Sherlock, much too loud. "Yes," he corrects himself. He gets to his feet again, paces the room. " _Yes_!" He is shouting now. Can't control it, might as well give into it. "Something is very wrong, John. And that something is... " He turns on his heel, lifts his chin imperiously. "You."

"Me?"

There's something grimly satisfying about the look of surprise on John's face. _Didn't see that coming, did you, John? Don't try to trick me. It doesn't work._

"I've had enough of this, John. You cannot simply stay here indefinitely, hiding from your life. It is _excruciating_ , watching you every day invent new excuses, new reasons to avoid your responsibilities. Your wife needs you. Your child needs you. This temper tantrum of yours has gone on far too long. Grow up." 

Sherlock's theatrics have been largely wasted, because John isn't looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the floor while his jaw works, and for a moment Sherlock is afraid, legitimately afraid that he has pushed John Watson too far and will now quite possibly be strangled to death. That's all right, though. He deserves it. 

John's voice, when it comes, is low and dark and frankly a bit scary, but he's still in his chair, so Sherlock slips out of the defensive posture he had unconsciously taken. 

"You think it's that easy, do you?" 

"No. No, it's not easy. But—" Sherlock reclaims his chair, leans toward John. "This is what it's like." He's not angry anymore. His voice has taken on a desperate, pleading tone. "It was never going to be perfect. People lie, people hurt each other. From what I've seen, that's the stuff relationships are made of."

John snorts. "You're giving me relationship insights you've picked up from crime scenes."

"Granted."

John puts the paper away, then stands and moves toward the door. It looks like he's really going to do it, really going to leave, but he stops just before the doorway and turns around. 

"You're a clever man," he says, his fingers clenching and unclenching, "but you're out of your depth here. You can't possibly understand—"

"I do, though." Sherlock stands as well, takes a step toward him. "I know, John. She betrayed you, and you think you can never forgive her. But so did I. I stood on that roof and I told you everything you believed was a lie. Then I gave you a new lie to believe. And I let you believe it for two years."

John twitches, still not making eye contact. 

"You forgave me. You can forgive Mary." 

"I can't, though. This is different."

"It isn't."

John lifts his eyebrows, apparently not willing to stoop to a "'tis/'tisn't" battle. 

"You think this is about the lying," he says after a moment. He sounds slightly hoarse. "About the secret identity, the assassinations, whatever other awful, illegal stuff was on that flash drive. Sherlock, I made peace with all that months ago. I'm not overjoyed, but I understand why she did it."

Sherlock tries to puzzle that out. "But then...?"

"It's you, idiot."

Sherlock blinks. John takes a few steadying breaths, but his voice is nonetheless cracked and raw when he speaks again.

"Mary shot you. More than shot you, she almost—" He shakes his head. "I know that doesn't mean much to you. You face that kind of danger all the time, right? Part of the job. But Sherlock, she knew. That whole time you were—"

 _Dead_ , Sherlock's mind supplies.

"—gone, I told her about you, and she saw me, saw... what it _did_ to me, all right? I lost you once, and it nearly finished me. She knew that—knew it better than anyone. And I—I can't face the person who would even think of putting me through that again." 

Sherlock is quiet, and for a while, there is only the sound of John's barely-controlled breathing. He has one hand on the door frame, steadying himself. 

"John," says Sherlock at last. He is thinking about Mary, about what she said last night that changed everything, about that one little word— _in_ —that shifted his whole perspective. "John," he says again. He takes a step closer. "Are you in love with me?" 

John's head snaps up to stare at Sherlock in wide-eyed dismay. 

"That's not what I was—"

"I know," says Sherlock softly. "But I'm asking all the same."

John blinks, doesn't answer. He opens his mouth a few times but produces no sound. Sherlock takes another step, invading John's space until he is crowded up against the wall. 

"Sherlock," he says, his voice pitched slightly higher than normal, "I only meant—you know you mean the world to me, but that's not—"

"Yes or no, John." Sherlock's voice, to his surprise, has dropped a pitch. 

"I—I don't—It's not that simple..." 

Sherlock braces one arm against the wall, which allows him to lean even closer.

"You still haven't said 'no'." 

John swallows visibly. "No," he says. Sherlock freezes. "No, I guess I haven't." 

The look on his face is still more panicked than aroused, but Sherlock kisses him anyway. John flinches, which isn't very flattering, so Sherlock pulls back. John's eyes are wide like a cornered rabbit. 

"I see," says Sherlock. "Well, there's that settled." He starts to move away, but John catches his waist and grips hard. 

"Wait," he says. "I just—I always thought—And you were—"

"Pick a sentence."

"Right." John clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. "I—I didn't think it was possible. So I never let myself... Which isn't to say I never wondered. What it would be like."

"Would you like to find out?"

"I think," says John carefully, and Sherlock bites back a growl of frustration at the man's inability to give a simple affirmative or negative response, "I think that given the opportunity, I'd never forgive myself if I said no." 

Sherlock takes a moment to replay the sentence in his head, checking the syntax to make sure he has grasped the sentiment implied. Then he kisses John again. 

John doesn't flinch this time, but he isn't particularly responsive, either. After a few seconds he begins to relax, but Sherlock senses that neither of them is getting much out of this. He starts to pull away, only to find himself locked in a powerful grip, one hand on his waist, another at the back of his neck. 

"Once more," says John, tilting his head up. Sherlock complies, and this time John participates fully—perhaps too fully. There is a clash of teeth, and Sherlock feels positively oppressed by the amount of tongue suddenly in his mouth. For all the lack of finesse, however, there is something undeniably stirring about John, _his_ John, moving wildly against him, breathless and demanding, pulling him ever closer, tighter. 

After some time John pulls his head away, gasping. 

"All right?" says Sherlock, panting a little himself. 

John nods.

"Bedroom?" Sherlock offers. 

John nods again.

******** 

It occurs to Sherlock at some point that it has been a very long time since he has done this at all, let alone with two different people in the space of 24 hours. He's not sure he's ever done that sober. He appreciates the rare opportunity to make direct comparisons, and carefully files his observations into the mind palace. The day has turned out quite different to what he expected yesterday morning.

********* 

The sun is noon bright when Sherlock wakes. John's hair is wet, he is putting his clothes on. 

"Why are you awake?" says Sherlock, somewhat nonsensically. 

"Oh, hi," says John, and Sherlock winces at that "hi". It's been a while, but he remembers enough to know that can't be good. 

"I just got off the phone with Mary." John kicks under the bed, feeling for his shoe. "I'm going to head over there for a bit."

Sherlock sits up. "Is she all right?"

"What? Yeah, she's fine. I just—" John finally stops moving around and looks at Sherlock. What is that expression? Guilt? Pity? "You were right, Sherlock. I've been an idiot. I just—I don't know. I don't mean to... but I need to see her right now." 

Sherlock nods. Of course. This is what he wanted. This was the plan, inasmuch as there was a plan. Which was not really. He should text Mycroft, gloat over how well this all worked out.

When he looks up again, John's expression has softened. For a moment, Sherlock entertains the absurd hope that John will kiss him goodbye. 

"Are you going to be all right?" says John.

"I... Yes."

John smiles. "Good," he says, and he pats him on the knee before heading out the door. 

*********

John doesn't return that evening. It's the first time he has spent the night with Mary since the Watson Family Domestic of last June. _Progress_ , Sherlock tells himself. 

The following evening, Sherlock takes out his phone. _When are you coming home_ he types out, then deletes it. What a ridiculous question. John is home. 

He tries to think of something he can text Mary, but that's even worse. He doesn't know what she knows, what they've said to each other about him. If they've said anything. If they've thought about him at all. 

He can't decide which is worse. He does decide he doesn't want to find out just yet. 

********

Sherlock takes a case, considers inviting John along. Decides not to. He and Mary need their space, clearly. They know where he is, know how to get in touch with him. They will when they're ready. 

********

Mary has a prenatal appointment coming up. Sherlock texts her for the time. Mary's response comes a full ten minutes later:

_Might be best if you skipped this one. John will be with me. Things a bit delicate right now, don't want to mess it up._

Right. That makes sense. Very reasonable. 

Sherlock stretches out on the sofa, his hands steepled under his chin. He closes his eyes and drops into his mind palace, thumbing through cold cases, comparing data sets for previously unobserved patterns. It's soothing. 

He comes out of it two hours later to find his face wet and his chest heaving as if he's been chasing a criminal.


	7. November

Sherlock is throwing cutlery at the wall one evening when the door to the flat opens. 

Mary stands before him holding an overnight bag, her eyes red and swollen, her belly bigger than he remembers. 

"You never answer your doorbell," she says, "so I picked the lock. Is it all right if I—" She pauses as she takes in the scene. "What are you doing?"

"Experiment."

"Yeah? What are you testing?"

Sherlock slouches deeper into his chair and considers. "What happens when you throw cutlery at the wall."

"And?"

"Mostly it falls behind the sofa." 

Mary crosses the room and sits in John's chair. She leans toward him with her nurse-face on, professionally concerned and compassionate. Sherlock is suddenly very aware that he hasn't shaved or changed out of his pyjamas in three days. 

"Are you okay?"

He glances at her bag. The small size might suggest this will be a short visit, but Mary's tear-stained face indicates that she packed quickly, under emotional stress, so it more likely means that she was in a hurry and not thinking clearly.

"John chucked you out, then."

She gives him a morbid smile. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the World's Only Consulting Detective."

"You told him about us. Why?"

Mary leans back in the chair and sighs. "Because I'm an idiot. Things were going so well. One day, after all those months apart, he shows up on my doorstep wanting to give it another go. Said he'd been a fool, asked me if I'd have him back. I was so happy and so scared... I figured you must have said something to him, but I had no idea what. I didn't care, frankly—I didn't dare question it. I hardly dared to breathe."

"And he didn't...?"

"Not at first, no. Then last night he seemed distracted. Preoccupied. I didn't want to pry, but finally he said it was secrecy that nearly did us in before, and he didn't want there to be any secrets this time."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

Sherlock flings a fork at the wall. It sticks for a second, then falls behind the sofa.

"So are we going to talk about the fact that you shagged my husband? Or is that water under the bridge?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Apologies," he says. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." 

He leans over and hands her some cutlery: a peace offering. She turns her chair to face the wall, then chucks a knife at the blue skull portrait. It sticks right in the forehead.

"Figures," says Sherlock. "I'm only giving you spoons from now on. Are you angry with me?"

"Dunno. I'm not exactly standing on moral high ground myself, am I? To be honest, I was mostly relieved when he told me. I'd been choking on this massive pellet of guilt the whole time, and just like that, he cleared it all away. And since honesty was apparently going to be our new thing, it seemed like the perfect time to make a confession of my own." 

"But he didn't take it well."

"Not really. Didn't speak for about an hour, and when he did, it was to say that the whole situation was beyond fucked up."

"Fair."

"The more I tried to explain, the more outraged he got. As if he's the only injured party here. Anyway, he started packing a bag, and I thought he was moving back here with you. Then I realized he was packing _my_ stuff. Said he couldn't stand to see either one of us, and he hoped we'd be very happy together." Mary weighs a spoon in her hand. "Don't think he was entirely sincere about that last part."

"No, I don't suppose he was."

Mary pegs the spoon at the wall. It hits with a dull _thwunk_ and falls behind the sofa. "This is rather satisfying, isn't it?" 

********

Sherlock lets Mary have his bed so she won't have to climb all the stairs. He takes John's bed, though he spends most of each night staring at the ceiling, carefully reviewing, analyzing, and classifying all the ways in which he is the worst person on earth. 

********

Mary is up late reading in bed. Sherlock stops in on his way upstairs, checks to see if she needs anything. She doesn't. He kisses her on the forehead and says goodnight.

"Sherlock," she says as he turns to leave. "You could stay."

He hesitates. 

"It's just," she says, "I'm not really keen on being alone right now."

She puts down her book and scoots over on the bed. The bed is warm where she has just been. John's bed is cold and forbidding. Sherlock lifts the cover and climbs in behind her, not touching. Mary wiggles backward, inching closer to him. With gnawing trepidation, Sherlock curls around her, resting his hand on her belly. She is so warm, smells so good. He has been so lonely. 

The baby is moving around a bit—the one hopeful thing left in all this mess. It's comforting. 

"Mary," he whispers into her hair. "I'm so sorry." 

"Shhh," she says, stroking his hand. "It's all right. It will all work out." 

Surely she can't believe that. 

"I broke everything," he goes on. "I always do. You'd both be better off if I had never come back."

Mary squeezes his hand and shushes him again, but he's on a roll now, saying all the things that have been haunting his thoughts night after night.

"I don't know why I didn't just do it properly on that rooftop. Who was I saving myself for? The egotism of it—as if the world would stop turning without me. As if everyone wouldn't have been just fine if I had done what Moriarty wanted. He gave me a chance to perform one selfless act, what could have been the only truly selfless act in my whole miserable life, but that wasn't good enough for me. So I twisted it around and made it just another chance to show off. I hurt... everyone. I betrayed John. And for what? So I could come back and betray him again. And now you too. I'll never stop, Mary. I'll never stop breaking everything. It's what I do."

He squeezes his eyes shut, but it's hopeless, his face is a mess of self-pitying tears.

"Stop it," says Mary. "Stop this right now, I mean it." She sniffles and he wonders if she is crying too. Well done, Sherlock, he thinks. As if you haven't done enough damage, you made the pregnant woman cry. He starts to pull away from her, but she grips his hand tighter. "You're such an idiot, you know that?" She tugs his hand up toward her face and kisses it. "I love you so much," she says. "We both do." She kisses each finger in order, then kisses them each again. "I know John's being a shit right now, but we'd none of us be anything without you. Don't you dare say such things, Sherlock. Don't you dare think them." 

Sherlock is overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude. He'd had no idea how much he needed to hear that, even if he can't quite believe it—needed an answer to the horrible voice in his head. He squeezes her close, presses his face into her hair. Kisses the back of her neck, the rim of her ear. She kisses his hand one more time, then slides it down to rest on her breast. She holds it there. 

Sherlock feels his heart rate increase, along with hers. They are pressed very close together, and this is going to be awkward soon. 

"I should go upstairs," he says. 

She presses his hand to her more firmly. 

"Don't. Please, don't."

"This is a bad idea, Mary."

"I know."


	8. December

John comes home, throws his bag on a chair, and yelps like a wounded animal when he notices Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table. 

"Get out," says John once he regains his breath. 

"We need to talk." 

"Nothing good ever came of a conversation that started like that."

Sherlock kicks out the chair across from him. "Sit." 

Somewhat to Sherlock's surprise, John does. Sherlock has spent the last few hours plotting out what to say, but now it all feels ridiculous, and he doesn't know where to begin. 

"I'm sorry," is what he settles on.

"For what?"

"You want a list?"

John smiles bitterly. "I want to know if you have any idea what it is you should be sorry for, and why."

"I'm sorry I slept with your wife."

That seems to catch John a bit off guard. "Well," he says. "That's a start." 

Sherlock isn't sure what else is expected, but so far everything has gone slightly better than anticipated, so he follows his instinct. 

"Marriage," he tries, "is a sacred covenant between a man and a woman, and by sleeping with your wife, I disrespected—"

"Okay, stop it."

"Was I close?"

"Not really." John get up and pulls a half-full bottle whiskey from a shelf, along with two glasses. He puts them down on the table and opens the bottle. "No way I'm going to do this sober." He pours them both a couple of fingers worth, then slides one across to Sherlock and lifts his own.

"Cheers, eh?" John drinks the whole shot in one go. 

"Cheers," says Sherlock with a grimace, and does likewise. John pours them each some more. 

"All right," says John. "Try again."

Sherlock takes a sip of the whiskey, mostly to buy himself some time. He puts down the glass.

"I betrayed you. You trusted me to look after Mary while you worked out your differences, and I abused that trust."

John takes a drink. "Warmer," he grants. "Keep going." 

Sherlock's mouth is dry. He takes another sip of the whiskey, though he knows that won't help. 

"I lied to you. I should have told you right away what happened, I owed you that much. Instead I tried to turn it around, to make you think everything was your fault." 

"That's true," says John. "I hadn't even thought about that. You're a prick, you know that?" John finishes his glass and pours himself another. He reaches over and refills Sherlock's glass too, even though Sherlock hasn't finished. "Drink," he says. 

Sherlock drinks. His body feels warm and loose, though with an undercurrent of cold fear still running through his veins. He had expected to be more in control of this conversation. He needs to get it back on track.

"I'm sorry I lied," he says, his hand clenched tight around the glass. "You're my friend, John, you deserve my honesty. No more secrets. No more lies. I swear it." 

John laughs, which Sherlock was definitely not expecting. 

"No more lies, Sherlock? All right. That sounds fair." He takes a drink. "So tell me," he says conversationally, "are you still fucking my wife?"

Sherlock feels his heart stutter. He hesitates. He takes another sip of whiskey. 

"I thought so," says John. "Nice try with the honesty, though. Really good effort." 

"I was going to answer. Give me half a chance."

"You were _thinking_ about it," says John savagely. "You just told me you weren't going to lie anymore, that there would be no secrets between us. And I asked you if you were fucking my wife, and you stopped to _think_ what you should say. Why is that, Sherlock? Are you not sure? Was it a confusing question? Do you need to consult a panel of experts to determine whether or not you are having sexual relations with my wife, the mother of my unborn child, Mary Watson?" John slams his glass on the table. He is red-faced, panting. Sherlock tries not to flinch. "Or were you weighing the odds of it coming back to haunt you if you decided to lie?" 

Sherlock has no idea how to fix this. Coming over here was a terrible mistake. He wishes he were anywhere else, wonders feverishly if he can escape this horrible conversation somehow. 

"Well, Sherlock?" John's voice is low and eerily calm now. 

"Yes," says Sherlock, as quietly as he dares.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I am still—Yes I'm still fucking Mary. All right?" 

John pours himself the last of the whiskey and drinks it down. He places his glass back on the table gently. He is smiling. He stands up, stretches a bit. He rounds the table. He clocks Sherlock in the jaw. 

For a moment, Sherlock can't think for the ringing in his head. It's just starting to clear when John hits him again, this time hard enough to knock him from the chair. He is on his knees on the floor. He spits blood on the grey and blue tile. He rolls over and collapses on his back, probably getting blood and saliva on his suit. He feels a certain sense of deja vu. 

John is on top of him, straddling his hips. The whiskey and blood pooling in Sherlock's throat are making him queasy. 

"All right," Sherlock concedes fuzzily, rubbing at his jaw. "I deserved that." 

John rears back like he's planning to hit him again, and as much as Sherlock has earned this beating, he really doesn't want more pain right now, so he flings his arms up over his face like a sissy. 

John grabs them away and pins them to the ground, which at least means he can't punch him anymore. 

"Tell me," says John through gritted teeth, "why you're sorry." 

"I did," says Sherlock, and it comes out like a pathetic wail. "I told you why. I'm—I'm trying. I don't know." He wishes John would let him up. He wishes he could go home. Tend to his wounds, drink a glass of water, go to bed. This was all a terrible mistake, Mycroft was right, some things can't be fixed. This is all too much work. He wants to walk out of here and never see either of them again. 

John leans back a little, easing the pressure on Sherlock's wrists. He is still breathing heavily, but the anger has gone out of his eyes. He looks sad, lost. Exhausted.

"Did I ever tell you about when I was younger?" he says. "Twenty-five, maybe. My girlfriend at the time shagged my best mate. Two people I trusted the most in the world, going behind my back. Do you know how that feels, Sherlock?"

By way of answer, Sherlock tries to free his arms, but John grips them harder.

"It was awful. The worst feeling in the world, I remember thinking. But this—this is a thousand times worse. Do you understand that?"

Sherlock nods yes.

"Do you understand why?"

Sherlock hesitates again. He hasn't been doing well at these sort of questions.

"Because Mary's not just my girlfriend," John says. "And you're not just my best mate."

Sherlock has thought of eight ways he could throw John off and slither out of this situation, but he does none of them.

"John." 

"You keep lying to me. You both do—you lie and you lie and you lie and you don't even think about what it does to me."

"We'll stop. I promise." 

"You'll stop? Listen to yourself. You can't stop. You and Mary—you're the same that way. You lie, you hide things, you keep secrets. She's a spy, you're a detective. You both reach for a lie automatically, every time you're not sure of yourself, like putting your hand on your gun. Sherlock, I can never trust either of you again." 

Sherlock's chest is still heaving with adrenaline, plus his shoulders are sore and his arms ache from this position. But he forces himself to focus. 

"All right," says Sherlock. 

"All right?" John's dangerous smile is back. "How exactly is that all right?"

"It's not, but it's— John, you're right about me. And probably Mary too. We're not—we're not good. We're going to hurt you, we always will. But you hurt us too. It's what we do, what we all do. Stop acting like you're above it. Like it didn't take you a week to tell your _wife_ what happened between us. Or had you forgotten about that?"

John leans in and kisses him hard on the mouth. Sherlock mostly registers this as searing pain, thanks to his injuries. He whimpers a little and John lets up. He releases his grip on Sherlock's wrists, then eases himself down so he is lying on his chest, a steady, soothing weight. 

"No," he mumbles into his chest. "I hadn't forgotten."

Sherlock had thought he wanted nothing more than to free himself and get out of this place, but now that his arms are his own again, he can only think to wrap them around John and hold on as tightly as possible. He presses his face into John's hair.

"You're right. We lie, we keep secrets, we hold grudges, we make terrible, terrible decisions. We tear each other apart. But we miss you. Come back."

John shifts up onto his elbow so he can look at Sherlock. He runs a light hand over the painful places on Sherlock's face that must be starting to color and swell. 

"I don't know," he says softly. "God, I don't want to lose you. Either of you. But what you're suggesting... It's dangerous, Sherlock. It could so easily explode into a million pieces."

Sherlock hazards a grin. "I know," he says. "That's why you'll love it."

John's mouth twitches in spite of himself. Gently this time, he leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock's. The kiss tastes like whiskey and blood, the tile at Sherlock's back is cold and unforgiving, his cheek and jaw are throbbing, and none of it should feel as good as it does. 

********

At the main road, a taxi slows beside him, but Sherlock waves it on. He is walking this path again, from John and Mary's flat back to Baker Street, and again, he's in no hurry to get home. 

There are differences, though. This time, the dark is broken up with colored lights, twinkling through the mist, and the effect is strangely... optimistic. Everything is still a terrible mess, but Sherlock is slightly less hopeless than he has been lately. It feels like they have a chance, now—a chance to come to an understanding, to accept each other—the good bits and the ugly bits too. 

But they can't keep bouncing back and forth between the flats, playing musical beds. _Or... floors_ , thinks Sherlock, rubbing at his neck and shoulders. He needs to find a way to get them out of this rut, these bad habits, where they can't seem to stop hurting each other. A change of scenery. 

Sherlock looks up and notices that he's at the same park bench again. He sits down, draws his knees up to his chin, and tugs his coat around him, staring thoughtfully at the glittering garlands. Then he pulls out his phone and sends a call.

"Sherlock?" says the voice at the other end. "Are you all right?"

"Mummy," he says, "I need your help."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Dangerous Love Cover Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279266) by [consultingpiskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingpiskies/pseuds/consultingpiskies)




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